


Buried by Regret

by summoninglupine



Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Hymn to Demeter - Homer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, References to Norse Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-24 21:37:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21345094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summoninglupine/pseuds/summoninglupine
Summary: In other places, in other worlds, Demeter searches for her absent daughter.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: Yuletide Madness 2019





	Buried by Regret

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AceQueenKing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/gifts).

It’s different here, there is smoke constantly in the air and the peoples of this place look different, sound different. It is a godless place, she thinks, as she turns amongst them, her feet covered in the dirt of the smooth stone they pave their streets with, leaving bloody reminders of her passing, soles cut open by stone and fragment of glass. And the noise, she thinks, such noise! A cacophony, a din, the constant chatter of voices—not to each other, of course, never to each other, but every thought they have addressed aloud. Perhaps, she thinks, in the absence of gods, in the lacking of prayers, they are driven to this, driven to the constant speech, these constant declarations to the universe. It doesn’t matter, she is not here for them, she is here solely for one thing and one thing alone.

She crosses threshold after threshold, demanding of them questions, imploring that they offer her what knowledge they have gleaned. Have they seen her, she demands; my daughter, she tells them, my daughter is missing!

The occasional stranger will turn their head to her, the occasional inn-keeper will approach, put their arms on her shoulders as if they are familiar with her and ask her personal questions and she will shrug free, will flee, will walk with determination from such places and try again and try again and try again. My daughter, she says, my daughter is missing!

In a place of dim lights fashioned not from flame and coloured like the feathers of the peacock, in a place where smoke curdles and the people of this strange land sway in time with the oppressive weight of music that arises from no visible musicians, there is a man leaning against a bar, dressed in a shabby travelling cloak, one eye blacked out and covered with a patch.

My daughter, she says as she approaches, and when he turns, she sees that he is not wholly a man, but that there is something effeminate in his manner, something of the old oracles, the speakers of truth in their high places.

My daughter, she says again.

Two ravens are painted in ink upon his exposed wrists as he lifts his glass of crystal.

Shall not be found here, he says, his voice sad, familiar almost.

I know you, she proclaims, and is fearful.

He nods softly.

You do, Demeter, comes his reply.

There is a moment of terrible recognition.

Hermes, she proclaims, her eyes growing wide.

He smiles sadly.

Not for the longest time.

There is silence between them, the cacophony of that musician-less music heaving about them.

What name then, she asks, what name might you be called?

Wōden once, Odin now.

She inclines her head but she does not listen.

My daughter, she proclaims, mouthing the words almost as if by instinct.

Gone, he answers.

My daughter, she says again.

Into the dark, he answers.

My daughter, she says, her resolve weakening, tears rolling down her cheeks.

He is silent, does not reply.

My daughter, she whimpers at last, almost unheard.

In the shadows, he answers.

She both knows and does not know what this means. She has seen the way in which her daughter is regarded, she knows the manner of men and the lawlessness of their behaviour.

My daughter, she grieves, and covers her face with her hands.

The music grows loud. This is a godless place, a part of her mind thinks, it is a sorrowful place where the seasons do not run as they should. So be it, she thinks, and, whatever promises are to be made to her in the future, she resolves that she will never let this go now, that no man’s harvest will ever be as once it was.

It is a strange place, a godless place, and in it, in amongst the crowds of swaying strangers, in the absence left behind by her beloved daughter, in the presence of one-eyed Hermes, she feels something else.

The tears stop. Another emotion crosses her face. The music is loud; the lights illuminate her. Demeter gives herself to hate.


End file.
